


What Were Once Vices Are Now Virtues

by Boomkin



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Clothing Porn, Corvo Bianco (The Witcher), Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Fluff and Smut, Geralt of Rivia Has Two Hands, Hedonism, In Media Res (sort of), Multi, Oxenfurt Academy (The Witcher), POV Third Person Omniscient, Polyamory, Professor Jaskier | Dandelion, Public Sex, Retirement, Spoilers, Student Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Teacher-Student Relationship, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:14:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29461119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boomkin/pseuds/Boomkin
Summary: At Corvo Bianco, Geralt is having second thoughts about his retirement, so he travels to Oxenfurt Academy in pursuit of a higher knowledge.Yennefer’s hot take:Geralt is bored and needs to indulge in some student-teacher romance with his little buttercup.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	1. Arete (excellence)

**Author's Note:**

> This is an ot3 with a primary focus on geralt/jaskier starting in chapter 2. 
> 
> Also, I used elements from the show, games, and books. Really though, this is just a bunch of fluff and smut written because I’m perpetually thirsty for one Geralt of Rivia. 
> 
> Enjoy?

I.

Arete

(excellence) 

  
The robe was made from the finest Redanian silk, dyed black and embroidered with gold thread that matched the eyes of its owner who laid wrapped in its embrace. A braided cord meant to hold the garment closed hung untied, scarred fingers absently playing with the tassel, letting it catch and snag against rough hands. 

Geralt anticipates the echoing _ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ka-chunk_ of the deadbolts unlatching the front door well before it happens, but other than letting the woven threads fall against his stomach, he does nothing to hide his nakedness on display, though it would take minimal effort to grasp the material pooling at his sides and drape it over his exposed front. 

It was a gradual revelation, the freedom that came with owning property. Out on the Path, his clothes never came off all at once, unless it was to wash along the banks of the Yaruga, and even then he always kept a keen eye on his surroundings. Even if he happened upon the safety of four walls wherein he could indulge in the comfort of a bed, bath, and warm body, his clothes were off only in the time between entering and exiting. It’s not like he could wander naked around the halls of an inn or brothel; such notions had never even crossed his mind. 

He tucks his free arm behind his head, resting against it as he burrows deeper into the velvet settee, lowering the book in his other hand. The door swings open to reveal a grouping of servants carrying what appears to be a painting wrapped carefully in butcher paper for transport. A feminine voice, stern and commanding, shouts instructions over the din of their ministrations. 

Yennefer appears in her usual glory, devastating and deadly, wrapped in a black trumpet skirt and matching jacket, with a bundle of boxes against her cocked hip.

“Very good, mademoiselle,” says the Majordomo, Barnabas-Basil, bringing up the rear and promptly directing the servants on where to hang the painting. 

Yennefer observes the brigade’s limber footwork as they shuffle to the opposite end of the house and busy themselves with their task. She places her belongings on the dining table with a huff and then abruptly spins on her heel, sashaying over to the open alcove where Geralt lounges. 

“Oh, what a life it would be, to lay about with my cock on display while the help pretends not to notice,” she tilts her chin up, acknowledging the exposed appendage that lays flaccid, yet prominent, in a nest of white hair. She makes an obscene gesture with her hand. “I have a huge prick,” she says in a poor imitation of his voice, “serve me.” He glowers at her. 

“It’s warm,” he grunts, turning to the next page of his book, “And Marlene’s away for the week.” Yennefer crosses her arms and leans against the archway. He peers over the top of his book. “Hauteville?” 

“I needed supplies.” 

“Hmm.” She meanders into the room, giving the four walls a cursory glance before she drops, unceremoniously, into his lap, her supple, satin covered bum wiggling against him. She plucks the book from his hand, rudely closing it before he can even mark his page. 

“Astral projection?” She queries with an arched brow. “You’re becoming quite the scholar in your retirement, I must say.” She tosses the book over her shoulder, discarding it like a piece of rubbish. Geralt’s cock twitches in interest. She leans back against him and sighs, nosing along his bearded jaw. His hands wrap around her waist, resting loosely. 

“I’m surprised you’ve yet to ready yourself for the day. Usually you’re out of the house by now.” Geralt shrugs, appearing rather pensive. 

She’s right, however. On a typical day, he’s awake at the crack of dawn with the servants, scouting the grounds with Roach for any archespores or giant centipedes that love to make their home in the sprawling fields of his estate. After that he usually does some practice drills with his swords, simply to keep himself fit and attuned to fighting. Then it’s a perfunctory wash in time for breakfast. 

Afternoons are for helping out in the fields or down in the cellar, all the while taking note of his staff and their various needs. He’ll check the accounts, balance the ledgers, and attend to any outstanding business with the local merchants. Finally, when that’s all said and done, he’ll wander over to the gardens and search for a void in the terrain, one shaped like an hour-glass and powerful enough to eclipse even the harshest ray of sunlight.

“Felt like breaking routine,” he mumbles. Yen nods and is apparently satisfied with the answer because she says no more on the subject. Instead, she pulls his face up to hers, brushing their lips together, aiming to deepen the kiss, but Geralt does not reciprocate. She makes an agitated noise, opening her eyes to meet his. 

“What’s wrong, White Wolf?” Her voice airs on the side of gentle, which always surprises him given that he can count on one hand the amount of times he’s heard such softness in her tone. He swallows and blinks up at the vaulted ceiling. 

“Wonder if I made the right choice, retiring.” Yennefer is silent for a moment until she clears her throat. 

“You’re bored,” she says matter-of-factly. 

“Hmm.” 

“Geralt,” she murmurs, tracing the marred skin of his knuckles. “Why don’t you pay a visit to your little buttercup?” 

“Not sure ‘little’ is the right descriptor,” he muses. Yennefer snorts. 

“Yes I’m fully aware. Last time he was in our bed he nearly broke me, the whoreson.” Geralt smiles fondly at the memory. It isn’t often he has both lovers together, but when he does it’s nothing short of sublime. 

“Was your idea to use incense.” She rolls her eyes. 

“The point I’m trying to make is that Jaskier is lecturing right now, yes?” 

“Mm.” 

“So why not spend some time at Oxenfurt?” She gropes around for the discarded book and then waves it in front of his face. “You can attend lectures on subjects such as this. I think you’d find it interesting.” 

“Hmm.” 

“Don’t ‘hmm’ me. Use your words.” 

“Don’t think I have the constitution to be a scholar. Attending lectures is one thing, but the culture, Yen. Don’t want anything to do with it.” 

“Which is what, exactly?” 

“In the words of Jaskier: ‘pretentious old men who sit around and fellate each other’s egos.’” Yennefer laughs, a bright, genuine cackle. 

“That’s no matter as long as you continue to be your broody and antisocial self, darling.” Geralt lets out a grunt. 

“Hmm. Think he’ll let me stay in his apartment? ” He cheekily queries after a moment of contemplation. Yennefer rolls her eyes and scoffs.

“Does a gull shit off a cliff?” 

Geralt’s lip curls slightly, his dry sense of humor getting the better of him. 

“It’ll be quite the dichotomy: a taciturn student and garrulous professor, both erudite, insomuch that the days will be spent studying, but by turns, you’re both insatiably horny, so the nights, I postulate, will be rather...hedonistic.”

Geralt blinks at her. “Think _you_ might be a scholar.”

She flips her hair, smacking him in the face with it. “No, because I’m more than just hot air and ego. I’m _right_ and you know it.” 

“Yen,” he grouses into her hair. 

“What?” She snipes back. 

“Making it sound like it’s a bad, thing, studying and fucking. Is it though?” he questions in a jagged murmur. 

He parts her hair and noses along her nape, cock rapidly filling out as he breathes in lilac and gooseberries mixed with the scent of arousal that wafts from between her thighs. 

“Not at all. I’m simply giving myself something to think about while you’re away.” 

He remembers a time when her territorial nature got the better of her when it came to Jaskier. 

_Just a friend, I hope?_

Until the day she found them in her bed, Jaskier balls deep inside Geralt. The pair froze as she glided across the room and settled into the chair by the fireplace. She held their gaze, watching them pant and sweat and stare, transfixed, as she slowly unlaced her leather breeches and lifted up the cambric shirt Jaskier had given to Geralt. 

“Continue,” she uttered in a voice that bordered on reverent, palm slipping down her abdomen and into her open trousers. 

She claims to have never given herself a stronger orgasm than she did after directing them, commanding Jaskier to go faster, slower, letting Geralt know when to touch himself and when to stop, and only when she was moments from hurtling towards her own finish were they allowed to come with her. 

“Smells like you’ve already started,” Geralt growls, lifting her skirt to be met with a more concentrated aroma. His large hand slips down her petite frame to cup her sex, letting his calluses brush tantalizingly against her puffy, slick folds. 

“Fuck, Yen,” he grates against her shoulder, using his free hand to unclasp her jacket. “You’re already close.” She pulls the ties that fasten her blouse, exposing her breasts to the cool air. Geralt gently swipes his thumb over a pebbled nipple, causing her to hiss and arch her back. She mewls in frustration, bucking her hips when Geralt tickles her engorged clit with the tip of his finger. 

“Don’t tease,” she threatens. “Gods, Geralt, you always do this, turn me into a lust addled harpy.” Geralt smiles, teeth scraping her collarbone, fingers shallowly dipping in and out of her entrance, thumb circling her in a light tease that has her clenching. She slaps away the hand on her breast so she can pinch and roll her nipples to her liking. 

“More,” she keens breathlessly. Geralt pushes his fingers deep into her cunt, crooking them against her spot and applying more pressure with his thumb on her clit. 

“B.B. is coming,” he whispers.

Yennefer chokes on a moan.“So am I,” she cries out, voice high and reedy. Barnabas-Basil lets out a garbled noise and drops the lit candle he’d been carrying. She flutters and contracts around Geralt’s fingers, her essence gushing down his hand in much the same manner as the hot wax splattering across the hardwood. 

“Forgive me, monsieur,” he gasps, turning on his heel and scurrying out the front door. 

Yennefer slumps against Geralt, her head lolling on his shoulder as she catches her breath and rights the mess on the floor with a single movement of her hand. 

“It’s your fault if he has a heart attack,” Geralt admonishes. She turns her face, cheek catching on his beard. 

“Oh, he’ll be fine.”

“Hmm.” 

They continue to lay there, Yennefer’s bottom fused to Geralt’s unwavering erection as he lazily licks up the remnants of her orgasm from his fingers. 

“Should take me a few days to reach Spalla. I’ll need to prepare Roach,” he muses aloud. 

“You’re leaving tomorrow then?” 

“Mm. Will you stay here or return to court?” He gathers up her hair, twisting and letting it fall down his fingers. She shakes it out and he tucks the flyaways behind her ears. 

“The Lodge has asked for my counsel which will require extensive research. I’ll be using your lab for the time being.” 

Geralt shifts below her and begins to peel her skirt down her legs, his voice a gruff whisper in her ear.“Will you miss me?” 

She kisses him briefly and then flips over to straddle him. “Like society misses the plague,” she declares with a haughty smirk before seating herself on his stiff cock in one fell swoop. 


	2. Phronesis (practical wisdom)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, this chapter is really where the fusion of books, game, and show comes in. So keep that in mind if you’re trying to avoid any sort of spoilers.

II.   


Phronesis 

(practical wisdom)   
  


The journey from Corvo Bianco to Oxenfurt would take little over a week, assuming he traveled along the beaten path and with a sense of haste, avoiding civilization as much as possible. For even the smallest village could hold temptation, namely in the form of a message board ripe with contracts or an inn hosting a high stakes Gwent tournament. In the days of yore, going weeks without a bed or bath was expected, but now, being flush with coin, it was harder to find a reason to forgo such luxuries. 

Upon reaching Spalla, Geralt intended to stay no more than a night, an opportunity for a hearty meal and proper rest before setting off again. Though after only a few short hours spent in the fortress, he had overheard enough chatter to deduce that a hungry cockatrice had taken up residence in a nearby cave and apparently killed a few wandering peasant children. He squeezed the handle of his flagon as the scar across his left eye prickled with phantom pain, an echoing motion of the beast’s talon as it carved along his skin like whittled wood. 

His cat eyes strayed to the swords in his pack, freshly sharpened and wiped down with an oiled rabbit skin. It had been an age since he’d cut one down. Clearing his property from poisonous plants had become synonymous with the mundane, for it was no more taxing than tilling the fields or felling a tree. 

It was for the greater good, he reasoned. 

Draining the last of his ale, he trudged up the stairs to his room, looking to see what elixirs he had on hand. Regardless, he would need to find an herbalist, but it was good to take stock anyway. 

And so one night turned into three, leaving him with a fresh set of cuts and bruises that comforted him in their familiarity, reminding him of who he was. It was easier then, venturing through the swamps of Ysgith and Caed Dhu, giving in to the habit of taking contracts on principle rather than necessity. 

It was at a run down inn somewhere between Maribor and the gates of Dorian when Geralt realized that he had inadvertently returned to the Path, having stretched his journey well into the fourth Savaed of Birke by the looks of all the maypoles being erected.

His latest exploit had left him searching his muscle memory for a hand once practiced in sewing flesh as a manticore left him with a particularly deep wound along his hip, the kind that made traveling by horse an incredible chore. 

“I’m too old for this shit, Roach” he muttered while limping around in an effort to cram his belongings into her saddlebags. She whickered and stomped her hoof. “I  _ am  _ retired,” he assures her with a pat to her withers. “Needed to do it, though. Had to make sure I’m still...capable.” A snort and nudge to his face reminded him that she’s not one to tolerate such gross displays of ego. He huffed and rolled his eyes. “Alright, you’ve made your point. Enough tarrying. We’ll ride straight on. No sense stepping foot in Vizima.” 

Geralt grimaced as he prepared to mount, his injured hip protesting vehemently from the pain of stretching over the saddle. “Fuck,” he grunted, using his teeth to uncork a flask of vodka and imbibing generously, spurred on by the prospect of Jaskier spending Belleteyn with anyone other than himself.

The thought carries him all the way to Oxenfurt, his gut thrumming with anticipation. It occurs to Geralt that he maybe should have written first. What if Jaskier had...company? It was likely, being on the verge of a holiday meant for revelry and lovemaking, or as Geralt saw it: eating, drinking, and fucking until dawn. 

He would defer to Jaskier’s plans regardless. It was beyond imperative, for he had decided, long ago, that if Jaskier could not have the entirety of Geralt’s heart, then he would see to it that the bard got everything else he desired, no matter the cost. 

_ Because he deserves the entire fucking continent and then some.  _

Early in their friendship, Geralt had held Jaskier at arms length, viewing his behavior as no more than tolerable, until he unwittingly washed his hands of it somewhere in the Kestrel Mountains. 

He regretted the time he squandered away before issuing a proper apology. Not only was Jaskier tortured for simply knowing the witcher, but he endured it with the belief that Geralt hated his very being. 

And then one day, while recovering at an inn amidst their campaign to save Ciri, the threat of mortal peril hanging over their heads, Jaskier had mentioned returning to Anna Henrietta in Toussaint. It was spoken as an aside, really. He had been combing Geralt’s hair, absently humming to himself, pressing soft kisses to the clean, wet tresses as he detangled them. His breathing turned slightly ragged as Geralt tilted his head back, nosing along the underside of the bard’s jaw, breathing in woodsmoke and linseed layered above his natural musk. 

And then Geralt felt his own name breathed into his mouth and he absolutely needed to taste where it came from. 

So he did. Once. Twice. Three times. 

“Get in here,” he rasped and Jaskier was in his lap before he could blink, hot water sloshing over the sides of the tub. Geralt teased him mercilessly with his hands as he laved at the bard’s skin with soap, fingers swirling through the thick hair that carpeted his chest and over his nipples. It was when Geralt slid his hands down below, intent on cleaning  _ every  _ nook and cranny, that Jaskier whined and gripped the wooden edges of the tub so tight they groaned in protest. 

“Geralt! Oh Geralt, it’s been  _ decades _ ,” he spoke with an air of desperation, his crystalline irises melting in the heat of Geralt’s firelit stare. 

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted in a lofty sort of tone before leaning in again, only for Jaskier to turn away, head tipped upward as he placed the back of his hand against his forehead in dramatic fashion. 

“Decades, I’ve supplicated at your altar, receiving but a whit of your affection for my efforts. Truly negligible, these blessings, and yet somehow they were enough. Oh yes, enough to keep me knelt in a permanent state of genufle—“ He yelped when Geralt bit down hard on his shoulder. 

“You talk too much,” he groaned in that rough burr before lifting them both up, water streaming down their bodies as he threw Jaskier on the bed and proceeded to take him apart, piece by piece, until he was  _ finally  _ rendered  speechless. 

After, as they lay side by side, sweat cooling on their skin, Geralt had wrestled with his thoughts while pretending to succumb to sleep. When Jaskier began to fidget his fingers, Geralt reached out automatically to gather them in his hand. He rolled over, crowding himself against Jaskier who turned his head to look him in the eyes.

“I love you,” Geralt murmured in a sleepy, slurred voice, blinking owlishly in his relaxed state. He remembered Jaskier beaming in a way that suggested Geralt hung the moon and then some, only to appear utterly crestfallen moments later. 

“What about Yennefer?” Jaskier husked in a half whisper. Geralt held his gaze steady. 

“I love her too.” He watched Jaskier’s expressions as he came to terms with Geralt’s admission, eventually putting on a brave face. 

“Okay,” Jaskier croaked, holding back tears. Geralt would be lying if he said he didn’t feel his heart sink in his chest, despite being well aware that he was asking for too much. 

But then, what did it matter anyway? He was going to die soon. 

“You should. Go to Beauclair.” And Geralt could hear the bard’s painful swallow as he nodded. 

What he wanted to say next was, “I don’t deserve you,” but what came out was “Can I hold you?” And Jaskier must have been weak towards the raw tenderness in Geralt’s voice by the way he promptly burrowed against the witcher’s chest, allowing Geralt to wrap him in a snug embrace and plant gentle kisses in his hair. 

“Sleep little lark,” he breathed. It hurt suddenly, breathing did, but he was used to pain, so why then did he feel like crying? 

They parted ways the following morning and Jaskier said nothing more than a soft “goodbye dearest friend” before pressing a lingering kiss to Geralt’s sandpapery jaw. 

Yennefer knew exactly what troubled Geralt moments into their reunion. “He doesn’t owe it to you to say it back, even if you know it to be true. I’m sure he appreciates that you were honest, but given your history, it makes sense that he’d want to keep the upper hand for once.” 

As he lay dying at Stygga, Geralt welcomed his delirium, more than prepared to die while imagining two lovers, two soulmates—how he would indulge them separately, together, whatever they would be willing to freely give, moving about their own lives, yet welcoming him in as they inevitably found their way back to his harbor. 

In the aftermath of it all, when he was healed and safe once again, Geralt eventually found his way to Toussaint. He came upon Jaskier tucked away in the palace gardens, his hair much longer with the ends  _ curled  _ into tight coils.

“What happened to your hair?” He wondered out loud. It was then, in the moment they locked eyes, Jaskier springing to his feet and hooking his arms and legs around him, clinging like a vine, that Geralt knew something had shifted between them. 

“Geralt, oh sweet Melitele, you’re alive! You’re alive,” he wept, tears forming in his eyes as their foreheads touched. Geralt spun Jaskier in his arms before setting him back down. “And you’ve let your beard grow,” he said, quieter now, petting his fingers through the neatly groomed scruff. Geralt looked sheepish. 

“Do you like it?” 

“My oh my, darling,  _ yes,”  _ Jaskier purred. “You look wise, my dear. Worldly, distinguished, like you belong at the lectern.” 

“Hmm. In your dreams, maybe. Now what have you done to your hair?” Jaskier blushes.

“The Duchess used hot tongs to curl it. She insists it looks quite fetching, but your face says otherwise.” Geralt used his fingers to rustle the neat curls, taming them into loose waves. 

“A little distracting,” he murmured. “Better now.” 

Geralt’s eyes flickered from the watery blue of Jaskier’s down to his plush, pouty lips and back again, reveling in the shuddering breath that gusted sweetly across his face. He leaned in a fraction, struggling to steady his own breathing. 

“Yes,” whispered Jaskier. “Gods, yes.” Geralt slotted his lips between Jaskier’s and delicately circled his tongue inside the bard’s mouth, triggering a pair of soft moans, one gruff, one dulcet, together cried in unison. Jaskier gently bit the witcher’s lower lip and then flickered his tongue out to meet Geralt’s. Their kisses went through several iterations, from languid to desperate to downright playful. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier yelped breathlessly as the witcher nibbled below the hinge of his jaw. “I—I—oh fuck! Your teeth are so deliciously  _ sharp _ , pet.” 

“Mm?”  


Jaskier pulled away so they were face to face, bringing shaky fingers to the Witcher’s scruff, petting at it and huffing nervously.  “Before you left, I—I didn’t tell you that—“ Geralt sucked in a hard breath. 

“Don’t have to,” he croaked. “Don’t have to say  _ anything, _ buttercup.” 

“But I want to, Geralt. I want to say it.”

“She will always be there.  _ Always, _ Jaskier.”

“I know, Geralt. Your djinn-y djinn magic may be stronger because of your love, but it’s not what created it. Even I, a hopeless romantic, know it doesn’t work that way.” 

Jaskier draws closer, his lips hovering in front of Geralt’s, breath tickling. “But, my dear, before I left...during our night together...I’d been given the impression that...that there might be room for me yet.” 

Geralt stared at him as if he’d been lost at sea for an age and Jaskier was the first sign of land on the horizon. A low, resonant growl began to vibrate through his chest. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier managed to squeak out despite being utterly paralyzed, his heart ensnared, caught and held on a witcher’s cruel tenterhooks. Geralt buried his face into Jaskier’s neck, letting the bard slip his hands into tangled, wintery locks, gripping tight.

“Want to travel together,” Geralt uttered in a rough voice that threatened to crack under the weight of its emotion.“Share beds. Baths. Everything.” 

“Oh?” Jaskier laughed, a hollow, sullen chuckle. “Well, yes. We’ve done that before and we can certainly do it again,” he explained. Geralt recognized the way his voice flattened into something resigned, expecting to be disappointed. He shook his head.

“No, buttercup. Not like this. Haven’t done it as lovers before.” Jaskier emitted a wet sounding gasp while Geralt ran his nose along the pulsing flesh of his carotid artery, scenting him. “As romantic companions,” he husked. 

Jaskier sighed, tremulous and disbelieving. “Are...are you saying you want me to be your  _ beau,  _ Geralt?” 

“Hmm. My romantic companion.” Jaskier laughed again, but this time a joyful, sweet melody that traveled deep into the marrow of Geralt’s bones. 

“Oh, but I don’t think so, pet. ‘The White Wolf’s Beau’ is a far superior title, perfectly fit for a ballad. It shall be known, henceforth, throughout the continent that I am now Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, Poet, Minstrel, Troubadour and last, but certainly not least, the White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia’s beau.” 

The witcher growled low and dangerous _ ,  _ the sunset reflected in his yellow eyes, turning them a rich shade of ochre. 

“You talk too much,” he mumbled, the corner of his lips hinting at a smile. Hoisting Jaskier up by the haunches, the bard shrieked in delight when Geralt tossed him into the bower and proceeded to torture him with hands and mouth. 

As he makes his way across the Guildenstern Bridge, Geralt’s cock stirs in his trousers, bringing his reminiscing to an abrupt end. He shrugs his shoulders in discomfort, the arms of his new doublet tight and restrictive as usual with any standard, pre-made garment. The tailor had tisked at him several times, suggesting that he should commission a custom piece, one that allowed ample space for his musculature, but to the tailor’s great annoyance, Geralt needed an outfit quickly. He had made a snooty, contemptuous noise and mumbled something under his breath about poor planning and dirty witchers. Geralt rolled his eyes. That was another issue. 

The tailor had refused to fit a body that was overly ripe from travel, which made sense considering he had ventured into a place that held the palatial air of Toussaint. The tailor even spoke with a Beauclairoise accent, but having spent enough time there, Geralt could tell it was fake. Nonetheless, after strategically name dropping Anna Henrietta and his excursion all the way from Corvo Bianco, Geralt was ushered through another door, one with a blazing hearth and a copper wash tub in the corner. He forced his lips into a thin line, keeping them from turning upwards. 

The seamstress, who had a pleasant disposition by comparison, prepared the bath and then washed and combed his hair before taking a pair of shears to it, cleaning up the ends. She even trimmed his beard back to its short scruff. Refusing any sort of payment, he made sure to slip a few crowns in her apron when she wasn’t looking. It was thanks to her that he looked like something out of one of those two-copper romances that both of his lovers liked to pretend they didn’t read. 

A small group of students, denoted by their cloaks with the university emblem sewn across the breast, turn their heads to look at him. At first he thinks they're just morbidly curious; he  _ is  _ a witcher, after all. That is, until they start whispering to each other, unaware of his enhanced hearing. His face warms, eyes sweeping down for a cursory glance at his outfit. 

The doublet is a midnight blue satin with silver detailing, which would be ordinary if not for the plunging neckline that exposes much of his chest, ending in line with his nipples where the pearl buttons begin their effort to keep fastened around his torso. The trousers are equally snug, made of thickly stitched leather and embellished with a set of garters that compliment the doublet. 

A bit tight, Geralt thought while standing in front of a large mirror at the dais, having learned long ago that it was useless to voice that particular opinion, for he had yet to meet someone who agreed. 

“Fuck,” he growls, startling the students as they cross paths, all while wishing he had his own pretentious cloak to pull around himself. 

The Academy is much the same as it always is, picturesque in its landscaping and stately courtyards, little tableaus of students who are lost in their scholarly pursuits. The liberal arts building, he remembers as he slips through the portico, holds the distinct scent of parchment and ink pots, which is far more welcoming than the sulfur and pitch wafting clear across from the Chemistry labs. 

After wandering through a few different corridors, Geralt picks up the sound of Jaskier’s enunciation. He follows it, a tiny thrill shooting through his belly, evolving into a somersault upon reaching the open threshold of a vast lecture hall. 

Jaskier is stood over the lectern, clad in a velvet robe, hood, and stole. Perhaps it’s not the regalia that takes Geralt by surprise, but the rivet spectacles pinched to the bridge of his nose or the streak of silver hair that peeks out from his tasseled bonnet. 

It could, however, be the assured tone with which Jaskier speaks, his nuanced hand gestures, the words he’s using, which Geralt isn’t very sure are part of the common tongue. 

“To be a good rhetorician is to use sound logic and reasoning,” he explains, grinning as he all but glides towards the audience, leaning in as though he’s about to share a particularly scandalous secret. 

“But to be a  _ great  _ rhetorician is to harness the power of…” he stands up tall, a hand raised in emphasis as he looks to the ceiling. 

“Oratory,” he declares, and it’s as though the word itself has been liberated from his lips. 

Geralt stands rooted to the floor, his eyes glittering with intensity while he watches the bard, no, professor, like a hawk and listens in rapt attention. 

Jaskier stops to look around at the students, his brow knitting. He slowly lowers his hand, scratching at his chin in contemplation. 

“Huh,” he says. “I thought that would garner a bit more, erm, enthusiasm than—” he pauses, glancing up at the students again and then quickly turning his head to look directly at—

“Geralt?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The outfit Geralt is wearing is from the cover of the Blood and Wine DLC, which can be found [here.](https://margaretheavesasigh.tumblr.com/post/629546708757561344/from-the-cover-of-the-witcher-3-wild-hunt-blood)

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts? Let me know below or on [tumblr](https://margaretheavesasigh.tumblr.com/) if you feel so inclined.


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